Page 11 of The Wrong Groom

What I didn’t expect was the disappointment that curls in my stomach like a snake at Gabriel’s words.

It doesn’t make sense that I feel this way. I didn’t come into this arrangement hoping for, or even thinking about, love. My marriage was never going to be an emotional one. I was always destined for something loveless, practical, utilitarian.

It’s why I spend so much time reading romance novels. They give me a fix of something I’ll never have in real life. Since I was a child, I’ve known that true love only exists in the realm of fiction.

Gabriel must see the series of emotions that flit across my face, because he grimaces, his face contorting in obvious guilt. “I’m sorry,” he says, and from his tone, I can tell that he’s serious. He’s truly apologetic.

I plaster a smile onto my face, even though I can’t muster the genuine emotion for it. The last thing I want is for him to be tormenting himself over this. I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m glad you were honest about it.”

I can tell he’s still uneasy. Something passes through his gaze, a look I can’t decipher. “I promise I’ll treat you well. While we’re married, I’ll take care of you. I swear.”

Now my smile is a bit more real. I had been bracing myself for something colder, more indifferent. But his sincerity catches me off guard.

“Thank you,” I murmur. It’s not exactly what every girl dreams of, but it’s something. A promise of kindness, of respect. And right now, that’s more than I ever thought I’d get.

Gabriel’s shoulders drop as some of the tension leaves them. “It’s only three years,” he points out. “And you’re young. There’s plenty of time for you to start a real life when this is over.”

The little bubble of optimism that had been building in my chest bursts, and I have to fight to keep the frown from showing on my face.

This isn’t the first time he’s said something along those lines. It should be reassuring. I know that’s what he’s aiming for, at any rate. But it isn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.

I don’t always have a good guess as to why I’m feeling how I feel, but this time, I think I might understand why my heart sinks at his words. It’s horribly depressing—a reminder that to him, this marriage is temporary—an arrangement with an expiration date. Three years, and then we go our separate ways.

It’s not real. None of this is real. My first wedding will be fake, artificial. Sure, it’ll be a huge ceremony. The dress will be breathtaking, the flowers extravagant, and the guests prestigious. But none of it will mean anything.

I’ll walk down the aisle, say the words, and play the part. But deep down, I’ll know it’s all for show. A performance for everyone watching.

My heart clenches at the thought. All of the romances I’ve ever read have culminated in a wedding, the ultimate celebration of love, a promise of forever. But mine will be nothing more than a transaction, an elaborate charade dressed up as something sacred.

At least before this arrangement became concrete, I could imagine that things might be different. I would read my books and fantasize about what my own love story might look like—how I’d meet someone who saw me for who I really am, who would love me, not for my name or family, but for me. I could pretend, for a little while, that I had a choice. That my life could be more than just a series of obligations and deals.

But now, with the arrangement sealed, that dream feels so far away. My wedding won’t be the happy, fairy-tale ending I’ve always read about. It’ll be the opposite, a reminder that love isn’t something I get to choose. That my life, my future, has already been mapped out for me, long before I had a say.

Gabriel looks at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for me to say something. Waiting for me to agree, to tell him that I’m somehow glad our marriage will only last three years.

I nod, my forced smile stiff. “Yeah. You’re right.”

He gestures back down the beach, toward the photographer’s marquee and the stupid, useless flowery archway. “You ready to head back?”

“Let’s do it.”

As we head back, our parents’ conversation becomes audible once more, like the reality of the situation is closing in on me, forcing me to confront what’s about to happen. Their voices carry over the sound of the waves, and I can tell they’re discussing the logistics of the wedding.

“—have already made some arrangements,” my mother is saying to Camille Thorne. “Booked a venue in Pasadena, and a caterer. April tenth. Is that acceptable on your end?”

Her cool tone makes me want to shrink. Is that acceptable on your end? Like she’s wrapping up a board meeting.

“That works just fine,” Camille says, nodding. “An April wedding. How marvelous.”

I know that April is supposed to be the prime month for marriage, but I can’t bring myself to find the magic in it. In my imaginary weddings—the ones in my head, where I was in love and able to make decisions about my own life—it was always December, always somewhere far from the city. I’d pictured a lodge up in the mountains, an aisle adorned with rich pine, the air smelling like cinnamon and spice, candles flickering around my guests as snow came down outside the windows.

Of course, given the circumstances, I’ve had next to no say in my wedding arrangements. I didn’t even get to choose the dress I’m wearing for this photoshoot. It’s all been in my mother’s hands.

I shoot a sideways glance at Gabriel, wondering what’s running through his head. He probably doesn’t have much control over this wedding, either. We’re both caught in the web of family expectations, our lives mapped out by others who think they know what’s best for us.

He catches my glance and offers a tentative smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s as if he’s trying to reassure both of us, but I can see the uncertainty flickering beneath the surface.

“We’ll make the public announcement soon,” Camille says. “If it’s alright with both of you, we’d like to kick things off on Thorne Enterprises’ social media, then publicize the announcement from there.”